At my eldest daughter’s house for Spring Break, I unzipped my checked luggage and found that the Transporatation Security Administration had, again, examined the contents of my bag. This search of my luggage occurs nearly every time I fly, and was expected. I saw that the twin zippers that secure my bag were on the right side of the suitcase; they had been aligned on the top when I left my house that day. As is their habit, the T.S.A. left me a note saying that they had been there, and I placed it with 10 identical notices. Such is the way of my traveling life.
A man hijacked a Boeing 727 jet on November 24th, 1971; he traveled under the supposed alias, D.B. Cooper. This act of what would now be called “terrorism” presumably resulted in the use of metal detectors at airports. By the mid 70s, according to an article in the New York Times, there were at least 150 planes skyjacked. In 1972, in a mistaken demonstration of joy — I was going on my first real vacation with my bride — I danced through a metal detector at an airport. This unrestrained action angered the guardians of the gates, who called me and my bride over to a side table, where they slowly and carefully examined every item in our luggage. We almost missed the initial flight on a trip that would end in Acapulco, Mexico.
In the 1980s, I was an advertising art director for an Indianapolis department store, and flew to High Point, North Carolina for photo shoots. The number of shots necessary to fill the catalogs I worked on required me to stay in North Carolina for two weeks. I insisted on returning home for the weekend, but I started taking my pool stick on the initial flight. I traveled often enough out of the Indy airport that the agents who examined my luggage would greet me familiarly, noting that “Esmerelda,” my name for my pool cue, was traveling again. And their recognition of me never kept them from hand searching my luggage. My frequent thought during their desultory examination of my underwear, was that I looked nothing like D.B. Cooper.
In my carry-on bag there are these things: three small notebooks, two ballpoint pens and a mechanical pencil; a zip up case holding a reporter’s notebook, another mechanical pencil, business cards, notes and a lanyard with a press pass attached; a Ziploc plastic bag with a nest of wires for my phone, laptop and tablet, and another plastic bag with hand wipes, a small first aid kit, antibiotic ointment, hand sanitizer and hand lotion. An x-ray examination of these things rings no alarm bells, but my checked luggage — therein lies the rub.
Two months after planes were flown into the towers, President Bush created the Aviation and Transportation Security act; section 110(b) of the act, according to the notes that the T.S.A. Agents leave me, requires them to “inspect all checked baggage.” My bag is often “selected for physical inspection.” When I unzipped my luggage in New Jersey, my rolled shorts and tees, socks, shirts, shoes and pants; boxed DSLR camera lens and Bushnell binoculars seemed not to have been disturbed, but lying atop all that clothing I found a 6’’ x 9’’, two pound volume that is my Peterson’s Field Guide to North American Birds. It had taken a very deep dive into my BVDs to find and extricate it.
The T.S.A. is properly tasked with keeping us safe. We can all help expedite the cause by putting our birding books on top.